I have a beautiful son who looks like he has stepped off the front of a Victorian chocolate box. Blue eyes and long golden curls. He plays to character and gets away with being carried everywhere and cradled in my lap on the couch or in his bed. He plays ‘goo goo’, and never has to grow up (he is 4 years old for crying out loud! I was walking to school alone by then, pretty sure I had my first job). His naughtiness is rhymed away with ‘there was a little boy with a curl in the middle of his forehead, when he was good he was very very good, when he was bad he was horrid’.
Today was the day when he went from this:
Because I caved to peer pressure – or possibly my own self-imposed pressure from the continuous commentary on his ‘girliness’ or ‘baby-ish’ looks. Admittedly, these haven’t been as bad as those I got before he turned 3 when he got his first hair cut ever. Many quizzical and very hesitant ‘boy?’ labels, as well as references to my girls plural.
But also because I feel he needs to ‘man up’. My daughter never cried at everything and anything. A shoe that won’t go on. A missing horse figurine. A couple of millimetres less juice than his sister. It seemed almost symbolic to me that he had indulged in a major crying session just minutes before the hairdressers appointment, courtesy of running out of a shop while my back was turned and being found by centre management.
Ok, that one was scary, especially for me. Why on earth he thinks I will have left him in a shop to go on my merry way without him, I do not know. But I am watching for abandonment issues now.
Sadly, the symbolism was lost as he had at least 2 more crying fits later in the day. The girls from next door were running too fast for him or something. But when he put his arms up to be carried, which the girls normally obliged, this time they refused. You’re a big boy now R2.
He looks pretty handsome to me. Amazing the power of a haircut in dictating how others treat you.